


Trick of the Moonlight

by sassyjumper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is having sleep problems. Or maybe it’s more complicated.  Set post-finale, during the H/W road trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trick of the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a Sick Wilson supernatural-themed challenge on LJ. **WARNING:** themes of suicide.  
>  Beta'd by the wonderful Srsly-Yes.
> 
>  
> 
> The title is from the Gareth Dunlop song used in the episode “Post-Mortem.” The first verse:
> 
>  
> 
> Here comes the night,  
> When all the ghosts come out  
> I'm haunted by everything,  
> That reminds me of my sin

 

 

 

The first night he’d witnessed it, House hadn’t been surprised. He knew Wilson had a history of parasomnias—talking in his sleep, even the occasional night terror.

And back when Wilson had first gone on antidepressants, he’d developed a habit of acting out his dreams. He’d been living alone in a hotel room at the time, so he only discovered his new activity after leaping from bed one night and promptly falling and knocking his head on the nightstand.

Actually, even then Wilson hadn’t quite been sure what hit him. But once House saw the bruising on Wilson’s forehead, it hadn’t taken him long to put two and two together. In the end, Wilson switched to a different SSRI and things got better.

Or so Wilson had said.

Now House was watching him do what he’d done for each of the past several nights.

Wilson got up from his bed next to House’s, wandered to the bathroom, turned on the light and then stood there with the door open. In this particular motel room, House couldn’t see Wilson where he stood. But he could hear him whispering.

That is, he could hear the whispering voice, but not the actual words. And that was driving House crazy.

But on each of the previous nights, when House would try to get up and move to a better vantage point, Wilson would exit the bathroom and get back in bed, without a hint of noticing him.

So this time House lay still, barely even breathing. And his mind went exactly where he didn’t want it to: away from the puzzle of what Wilson was whispering, to the question of why.

Sleep disturbances were very common in cancer patients, House knew.

But one of the main causes was getting actual cancer treatment. And Wilson just wasn’t into that.

 _Must be the stress,_ House reasoned. _Common trigger in people prone to parasomnias._

But the other possibilities lured House’s mind: Paraneoplastic syndrome? Had Wilson’s fucked-up immune system started attacking his central nervous system?

Or had the cancer simply, boringly migrated to his brain?

 _That hardly ever happens with thymomas,_ House argued with himself. _And he doesn’t have any other symptoms._

He paused at that thought. Had he missed something?

He did a quick mental review of recent Wilson mannerisms, ambulations, monologues and fumblings. He couldn’t remember anything strange—or beyond Wilson’s normal level of strangeness.

And House had been watching his friend's every move. He wanted to catch the first tell that Wilson was going downhill.

Which was funny, House thought, because then what? Wilson already was on a downhill ride and he didn’t want to stop.

But House wasn’t one to just do nothing. And watching Wilson, looking for signs, made him feel like he was doing _something._

That’s when the subject of his watch came shuffling back to bed, tucking himself back in like nothing in the world was amiss. House heard a soft sigh, and that was it. Wilson was in Wilsonland. And House just kept watching.

 

******

 

“You’re sleepwalking,” House announced over a stack of French toast the next morning.

Wilson’s fork paused mid-air. “Strange,” he said, furrowing his brow. “By all appearances, I’m eating a vegetable omelet.”

“That is strange,” House agreed before shoving a mammoth, syrup-laden wedge of toast in his mouth.

Their waitress came by then, asking if they’d like coffee refills. House, mouth full, just pointed at his cup.

“Please,” Wilson said, smiling apologetically at the young woman as she replenished House’s cup. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” she chirped, smiling before walking off.

House rolled his eyes. “Did you hear what I said? You’re sleepwalking. It’s been four nights in a row now—that I know of.”

Wilson looked thoughtful. “Seriously?” he said after a moment. “I mean, I can’t believe you haven’t used that opportunity to humiliate or maim me.”

“I guess I’m off my game at 3 a.m.,” House defended. “Really, it’s getting on my nerves. I can’t sleep knowing you’re creeping around like a…creeper.”

Wilson nodded. “Huh,” he said.

House hated that. “What, ‘huh’?”

Wilson gave him the earnest oncologist eyes. “House, listen. I’ve always had sleep problems. It’s probably the traveling, being in a strange place every night.”

“The stress of dying,” House supplied for him.

Wilson looked down at his omelet and worked his jaw. When he looked back up, his face was placid. “I used to sleepwalk a lot when I was a kid. It kind of ran in my family. Danny…”

Wilson stopped, that calm face clouding over in an instant. He dropped his head again, looking deeply interested in his omelet.

House felt a sudden pain in his gut. Danny. He realized he hadn’t asked Wilson about his brother since…Well, he hadn’t really thought about Danny since he got out of prison.

The last House had heard—before the whole driving-into-Cuddy’s-house thing—was that Danny was doing pretty well. He was taking his meds and had been able to move into a group home.

House found himself on the verge of asking about Danny, but something in Wilson’s demeanor stopped him. It was near-impossible for House to not ask a question he wanted answered. But Wilson had his head down and his shoulders were tensed, and something in the air between them kept House from saying Danny’s name.

He may have failed to ask about Danny, but Wilson had also failed to talk about him. There had to be a reason.

Wilson cleared his throat and began again, keeping his eyes down. “I—I started having sleep problems again, after you disappeared.”

_Oh._

House joined Wilson in looking at the omelet. “So, did it not get better after…?”

Wilson hesitated, and House peered at him. _Mentally scrambling for a way to lie but not lie,_ he diagnosed.

“It’s hard to tell,” Wilson finally said. “When you were…away, I started dating a nurse from Peds and she told me I would talk in my sleep, sometimes thrash around like I was having a nightmare. Sometimes I’d get up and walk around.

“But then she broke up with me. And I haven’t had anyone to tell me if I’m talking in my sleep.”

“I hear the secrets that you keep,” House couldn’t resist quoting.

Wilson smiled, just a little. “I hope not.”

House looked back at his breakfast. He decided not to push it for the time being.

“So you think it’s the stress?” he asked casually.

“Yeah,” Wilson said, though House heard the doubt in his voice.

“OK,” he replied anyway, looking up to meet Wilson’s eyes.

Wilson returned his gaze suspiciously, then wagged his fork in House’s direction. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“No way,” House answered truthfully.

Wilson nodded. “At least I know there are things I can count on.” His voice had that annoyed tone, but House heard the relief underneath.

He speared another obscenely large slab of French toast. After all, he’d need his strength.

 

******

 

Wilson was up and whispering at 2 a.m. And House was fed up.

They were heading toward New Orleans now, and this leg of the trip was supposed to be debauchery and nothing but. It was the place where they’d met. Where it had been Wilson in jail, and House the somewhat responsible one. It had been the few days that gave House something he’d been lacking for over 30 years—a friend who didn’t leave. At least until now.

But instead of feeling nostalgic or sentimental or whatever the hell he was supposed to be feeling, House was exhausted, pissed off and maybe a little scared.

He got out of bed and, as expected, Wilson emerged from the bathroom and started back toward his own bed. But this time, House grabbed him by the shoulders. He knew, of course, that standard protocol was to gently wake a sleepwalker. But House wasn’t feeling gentle.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, giving Wilson a slight shake.

With the light coming from the bathroom, House could see Wilson’s eyes were wide open, looking at him. But he didn’t respond in any way.

House gave him another shake. “Hey. Wilson. What are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

At that, Wilson gasped and broke free from House’s grip. “Don’t!” he said, backing away, all the way to the wall behind him.

House followed him, intrigued. “Don’t what?”

Wilson put his hands over his eyes, then asked in a shaky voice. “House?”

House stopped advancing on his friend. “Yeah, House,” he replied, then waited for Wilson to make the next move.

After a moment, Wilson dropped his hands. He sighed heavily. “Oh. I guess I was dreaming. I didn’t—I didn’t know it was you.”

“You were doing what you’ve been doing every night,” House told him. “You get up, go to the bathroom and start whispering. I can never hear what you’re saying, because if I move, you stop what you’re doing and go back to bed.”

“Oh,” Wilson said weakly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, annoyance creeping into his voice. “ _Oh._ ”

He brushed past House and headed back to bed. House watched as he curled up on his side and pulled the thin motel blanket up to his nose.

“That’s it?” House asked, feeling stuck right where he stood.

“What do you want me to say, House?” Wilson muttered. “I’m sorry I keep interrupting your Kim Kardashian dreams.”

House wrinkled his nose. “That’s what you think of my subconscious tastes?”

When he got no response, House limped closer to Wilson’s bed. “I think you know exactly what’s going on.”

Wilson still didn’t say anything. So House prodded. “I know you’re not asleep, moron.”

After a few moments, Wilson sighed then rolled onto his back. “OK,” he said quietly. “You win…I’ve been having dreams about Danny. For a long time now. You must be hearing me talk to him.”

House felt his throat go dry, and he wondered vaguely, briefly why that information was so disturbing. But then he knew.

“Wilson,” House said hesitantly. “What happened to him?”

Wilson didn’t answer, so House said it for him. “He’s dead.”

Still no response, and House was about to speak again when Wilson blurted out, “He killed himself.”

House wasn’t even surprised, but he still felt the shock of the words go through him. He slowly moved closer to sit down on the edge of Wilson’s bed. But he kept his back to his friend and spoke over his shoulder.

“He was living in the group home?”

“Yeah.” Wilson’s voice was a bit shaky. “They said he was doing well. He—I visited him and he seemed OK. I talked with him about maybe moving into an apartment. One of those supervised places. I said I’d pay for it.”

House waited several long moments for Wilson to continue. “And then they found him in the bathtub. He’d cut his wrists.”

House winced. He thought he should say something, but nothing would come.

“I,” he heard Wilson’s quiet voice. “I think I pushed him too quickly. I think—”

But House couldn’t listen to him go down that road. “Don’t even start that shit,” he growled.

“House,” Wilson protested. “I was pushing him! I was dating Kathryn and I wanted to feel normal. I wasn’t visiting Danny as much, and I wanted to act like it was because he was OK—”

“Oh, you awful person,” House sneered. “Yep, it’s all your fault for wanting to have a life.”

“No,” Wilson insisted, sitting up. “It was just like when he disappeared. I wasn’t there at exactly the time he needed me. I could’ve—I could’ve asked him to move in with me.”

“You were a doctor!” House said, exasperated. “You were barely home. What good would you have been to him?”

“He would’ve known I wanted him around,” Wilson said, voice cracking.

“But you didn’t.” House knew the words were harsh, but that didn’t make them any less true. “Not really. And who could blame you? He was practically a stranger.”

“He was my brother!”

House stood up. “You are not responsible for other people’s lives. Brother or not.”

House started to hobble toward the bathroom, just wanting to put some distance between him and Wilson. But then a thought hit him and made him turn around. “You never visited me.”

“What?” Wilson replied, looking confused.

House moved close to Wilson’s bed again. “You never visited me in prison. And I wasn’t even mad…OK, I was pissed. But I understood you were protecting yourself.”

There was silence, then Wilson said, “Are you saying it’s Danny’s own fault for not understanding?”

“I’m saying it’s OK to think of yourself. To want to have something good, and not spend every day worrying.”

“My brother killed himself because I wanted to have a girlfriend,” Wilson spat out.

House looked at the ceiling. “He killed himself because he’d struggled his whole adult life with a severe mental illness that has a high suicide rate. Not because big bro was spending time with a girl.”

“No, not—I know it was complicated, but—”

“No, you think it’s simple. You think it’s your fault.”

Wilson was silent, and House waited, wondering if he’d pushed too far.

When Wilson spoke next, House could barely hear his words. “When I dream,” Wilson said, then hesitated. “He tells me it’s my fault.”

It was all House could do to not grab Wilson and shake some sense into him. “ _He’s_ not telling you anything. It’s your fucked-up mind.”

“It sounds like him,” Wilson said quietly. “It feels real.”

House didn’t know how to reply. In the silence, he suddenly felt the throbbing in his thigh, how heavy his whole body felt. He sat down, on the edge of his own bed this time.

Then he heard Wilson’s voice. “It’s been worse since the cancer. The dreams, I mean. They’re…more vivid.”

House said nothing as he mulled that over. And then a sickening thought struck him out of nowhere.

“Wilson,” he said, trying to control his voice. “Do you think you deserve to die?”

Wilson was silent for just a moment—but for too long, House thought. Then Wilson sputtered, “Are you—are you out of your mind?”

House didn’t respond, waiting for Wilson to bury himself. “I _told_ you I don’t want to die,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you want to die.”

Silence again, and House felt the anger in the pit of his stomach boiling to the surface. “What does Danny have to say on the matter?” he said, letting his tone be as bitter as he felt.

“Don’t,” Wilson gritted out.

“Oh, no,” House laughed, with no humor. “I think you’re letting yourself die out of some misplaced, _insane_ sense of guilt. And I want you to admit it!”

Wilson said nothing, and House thought he just might do Wilson the favor of killing him.

“In your dreams,” he pressed, “does Danny say you deserve to die?”

“No,” Wilson choked out. “He doesn’t say that.”

“But he blames you for what happened to him.”

House heard Wilson draw a shaky breath. “Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes he’s mad and I just listen to him rant about how I didn’t help him.

“But a lot of the time, we just talk. Sometimes about stuff from when we were kids.”

Wilson looked him in the eyes. “House, I don’t think I deserve to die. But I—I can’t explain it.”

“Sorry,” House said, sharply. “That’s not good enough.”

Wilson took another deep breath. “House. It’s…You’re gonna think I’ve lost it.”

“Ya think?”

“No,” Wilson’s voice started to sound desperate. Then he simply blurted out, “Sometimes I hear him when I’m not asleep.”

House said nothing as he absorbed the words. Auditory hallucinations. Was it brain metastases, after all?

“How long?” House asked. “The hallucinations, I mean.”

“They’re—“ Wilson started, then seemed to reconsider. “Not long after Danny died. For almost as long as the dreams have been happening. But it’s gotten worse since the cancer.”

House nodded. “OK. Auditory hallucinations can be a symptom of PTSD, sometimes severe depression. Makes sense if they started after Danny.”

Wilson laughed softly. “Yeah. I told myself that for a while.”

“Wellll, maybe you were right for a while,” House pointed out. “And you know, I enjoy dark humor and all, but I’m failing to the see the funny here.”

Wilson reached out and turned on the nightstand lamp. House blinked against the dull light, then took a good look at his friend. He looked awful—dark circles under bloodshot eyes and just an overall air of defeat.

“It’s not funny,” Wilson agreed quietly. “After Danny died…You were in prison, Cuddy was already gone. My parents…were them. For a while I thought I should check myself into Mayfield.”

House let out a derisive laugh. “Yeah. That worked out really well for me.”

“When you came back,” Wilson said, ignoring him. “I wanted to stay away because I thought that’s what I should do. But,” he paused and looked down, “I missed you. And I was so relieved.”

House waited, a strange feeling growing in his chest.

“I just thought things would get better,” Wilson said. “For both of us.”

“They did,” House heard himself say firmly. “One punch and it was bygones. We were hanging out every weekend, Wilson. I saw you having fun—in your own inimitable way, of course.”

Wilson gave a small smile. “I liked crashing on your couch. It felt safer.”

House furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Wilson sighed, then looked at House with pleading eyes. “House. I want to tell you something. Please don’t say I’m crazy.”

That feeling in House’s chest spread. He tried to suppress it in his usual manner. “Uh, there’s almost no chance of that. But I’ll try to say it in a new, creative way.”

House noticed Wilson’s eyes dart around the room, as if an eavesdropper might be nearby. Then Wilson looked down at his own hands, playing with some loose threads on the cheap comforter.

“A few months ago,” he began, voice low, “I was in bed and I felt this crushing sensation in my chest. I opened my eyes and—and Danny was sitting there, with his hand on my chest.”

Wilson glanced at House, then dropped his gaze. “He leaned down by my ear. And he said, ‘You’re gonna die, too.’”

Wilson looked up. House wasn’t sure what his face looked like at that moment, but Wilson quickly shook his head.

“But, it wasn’t malicious or anything. He—he just stroked my hair a little and said, ‘We’re gonna be OK.’”

House opened his mouth but no sound came out. Anyway, Wilson kept talking.

“At first, I just thought it was another dream. But then I started noticing the chest pain. Then the annoying cough that wouldn’t go away.”

“Yeah, I know how that story ends,” House said, though there was no bite in his tone.

“So once I knew,” Wilson began again. “God, I was so scared. I’d thought it was just a dream.”

House looked sharply at Wilson. “ _Thought?_ What are you saying? You think your brother’s ghost swung by one night and gave you stage 2 thymoma?”

Wilson just looked at him, wide-eyed, so House went on, “That’s really lame. If I were a ghost, I’d be doling out pancreatic tumors—those things are bitches.”

“No!” Wilson cut him off. “I just think he was telling me what’s going to happen.”

“Oh, that’s all,” House sneered. “Sorry to reel you back to reality, but it’s a lot more boring than that. You’d already been noticing chest pain, and your oncology-minded subconscious was thinking ‘cancer.’ Hence, the death dream.”

Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face, then let it fall to the comforter.

“Are you going to let me finish?”

“There’s more?”

Wilson did his patented head tilt and stared at House.

House flapped a hand in Wilson’s general direction. Wilson sighed. “So when I got the diagnosis, I was just fucking scared. I wanted that…thing out of me, then and there.”

And House suddenly understood. “So the standard treatment regimen wasn’t gonna cut it,” he broke in. “That’s why you insisted on superchemo.”

House felt an odd sense of momentary relief. Now at least he had a reason for Wilson’s perplexing behavior after his diagnosis.

Wilson looked at his hands again. “I just didn’t want to wait around. And—and I was so angry.”

He paused to look at House, as if waiting for the green light to go on. House simply held Wilson’s gaze.

“I know I let Danny down,” Wilson said quietly. “I know I should’ve done better. But wasn’t it enough that I could never sleep, and had to go back on antidepressants, and thought I was going insane from guilt? Do I have to die, too?”

“No,” House spoke up. “You don’t. You can try more chemo. You can—we can try.”

Wilson blinked against the tears forming in his eyes, then shook his head. “No. I knew after the high-dose chemo didn’t work…It’s no use, House.”

House just stared at him for a couple long moments, incredulous at what Wilson seemed to be saying. “You actually think you’re fated to die?”

Wilson looked at him warily, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. “That night after the CT results, Danny told me.”

“Jesus Christ, Wilson.” House stood up and started to pace. “I thought you said Ghost Bro didn’t give you cancer.”

“He didn’t,” Wilson said quickly. “Or I don’t think. I mean, he told me he couldn’t do that even if he wanted. He couldn’t just kill me. B-but I don’t think he wants to, either,” Wilson rushed to add. “He’s not some evil spirit or something. He’s just dead.”

House stopped pacing, dumbfounded. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“I know I sound crazy,” Wilson said, voice cracking on the word. “But House, I can’t beat this. I know. I can feel it. And…”

“What?” House demanded, not caring how harsh he sounded now.

Wilson looked up at him and bit his lip.

House numbly sat back down on his own bed and tried to control his voice. “What could you possibly be afraid to tell me after all that?”

Wilson eyes dipped to his hands again. “Danny…He keeps telling me he feels alone. That he needs me.”

House just stared, completely at a loss. It was no use telling Wilson that Danny _didn’t_ need him because Danny didn’t exist anymore. Because he wasn’t sure Wilson was Wilson right now.

House felt like he was going to be sick. So he slowly stood up and started toward the bathroom. At the door he paused.

“ _I_ told you I need you,” he said over his shoulder.

If Wilson answered, House didn’t hear it. He’d already closed the door.

 

******

 

Somehow House had fallen asleep. After sitting on the bathroom floor until his leg started protesting, he’d gone back into the room to find Wilson seemingly asleep. House got into bed, then just lay there, mind still whirling with everything Wilson had laid on him.

But the exhaustion from the last few days must have finally caught up with him, because now sunlight was filtering into the room through the heavy drapes. House automatically looked to Wilson’s bed. It was empty and made.

House had actually gotten used to the fact that Wilson made the bed in a motel room. But he felt slightly alarmed by it this morning.

“Wilson?” he said, sitting up and listening for sounds from the bathroom.

Nothing. House got up and moved to where he could see the bathroom door. Open, no Wilson. House felt uneasy, but what was he supposed to do? Wilson was a grown man. A grown man with cancer and possible mental illness.

House decided to take a shower and think.

Parasomnias and hallucinations—auditory and possibly visual, he checked off as he turned on the water.

It could be depression with psychotic features, coming on after Danny died then amplified by the cancer. With Wilson’s own history of depression and family history of psychosis, he’d be at increased risk.

 _But it doesn’t hold up,_ House thought as the water hit his back.

Wilson’s hallucinations never seemed to crop up at inconvenient times. House knew a thing or two about hallucinations, and one was that they didn’t keep a tidy schedule.

_Except when they do._

Hypnagogic hallucinations, House realized, could explain it all. Voices and visions that turn up only in that murky zone between sleep and waking.

Wilson would deny it. He believed he’d been very much awake when some of his Danny encounters happened.

House would have to convince him otherwise.

By the time House emerged from the bathroom, Wilson had returned. He was sitting in the chair by the window, clad in jeans and a t-shirt. House ran a towel over his head, having dressed in the bathroom—a habit he’d fallen into because he thought Wilson liked that modicum of privacy.

“Where’d you go so early?” House asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nowhere,” Wilson said. “Just for a ride. I wanted some air.”

“Yep. Nothing like interstate highway air.”

Wilson smiled a little. “Beats motel air.”

House waited a moment, then approached Wilson. “If you’re getting tired of motels,” he said, as he limped closer, “we could stop somewhere and stay a while, find better accommodations.”

Wilson eyed him. “Some city with a well-regarded cancer center?”

“If you insist.”

Wilson looked toward the window, even though the drapes were still closed. “House, what do you think is wrong with me?”

House felt a little jolt—something like relief or even hope. Was Wilson actually admitting that Ghost Brother was a figment of his imagination?

Still, House wanted to tread lightly, which was not his usual way of treading.

“Well,” he said carefully. “I think you’re just having some very vivid dreams. And the voice you hear…There are a lot of explanations. PTSD, depression, some people with migraines have them—”

“My migraines haven’t…” Wilson started, then trailed off as is he were thinking. “Well, I’ve had them occasionally in the past year. But the timing didn’t match up. Not really.”

Wilson paused, then looked at House. “I stopped taking my antidepressants after the dream where Danny told me I was going to die. I thought I might be having side effects again. Maybe that was a bad idea? The-the voices did actually get worse then. But I didn’t want to go back on the meds—”

“Hey,” House broke in. “Don’t flip out. I’m just suggesting possibilities. If you want to know what I think it _probably_ is, I’m gonna say hypnagogic hallucinations.”

Wilson shook his head. “House, I know I was wide awake at least some of the times Danny was—”

“Are you that sure?” House challenged. “He never dropped by to chat when you were at work, did he? Did it ever happen when you were wide awake driving your car? Or was it always when you were home? Hanging out on the couch with your feet up, maybe?”

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it. He furrowed his brow and said, “I guess it’s possible I wasn’t fully awake. I can’t really…”

House sighed. “It’s OK. You’ve been dealing with a lot. It’s—”

“House,” Wilson cut him off. “I don’t want to die.”

House felt a fluttering in his chest, but he didn’t want to make too much of Wilson’s words. “Good,” he said mildly. “That’s good.”

“I’ve just felt…It’s felt so real when Danny talks to me. When I dream Danny talking to me,” Wilson corrected.

He glanced at House. “That night I came to tell you I’d try more chemo, and I crashed on your couch? I saw Danny. I dreamed him. And he said no one needed me as much as he did. So I thought…”

House waited but Wilson didn’t say anything more. “Wilson?” he said. “Do you want to try another round of chemo? For you?”

Wilson nodded as he looked at the covered window again. “Yeah.”

House’s heart was pounding, but he fought to tamp down the emotion. He simply returned Wilson’s nod. “OK.”

Wilson gave a small laugh, and his cheeks reddened. “God, you must think I’m—”

“I don’t think anything,” House cut him off. Then he sighed heavily. “I’m too tired and hungry for that. Let’s get breakfast.”

As they gathered their belongings to check out, House off-handedly said, “So maybe we should skip over New Orleans for now and go straight for Texas? You know, since M.D. Anderson is there and all.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “I don’t need the top cancer center in the country, House. Besides, you’d be recognized there.”

“That’s perfect,” House said. “Great excuse to never step foot in the hospital. Oh, or I could don a disguise! I’ve always wanted to pretend I’m a spy.”

Wilson gave a small smile. “We’ll see when we get there.”

House watched him toss his backpack over his shoulder and head for the door. For the first time in a while, House let himself feel hopeful.

 

******

 

The next time they stopped, they were just shy of Jackson, Mississippi. Close to New Orleans, where Wilson wanted to stop after all, even if just for a day. But it was late, they were both exhausted, and House’s leg had had enough. So another nondescript interstate motel beckoned them.

Wilson flopped right onto a bed as soon as he walked into the room, not even bothering to take his boots off.

“OK then,” House said to his back. “I’ll grab a shower first. A bath actually, if you don’t mind me indulging.”

Wilson mumbled something into the pillow.

“Fantastic,” House said, heading for the bathroom and hoping the tub was the sort he could allow his bare ass to contact. He wasn’t OCD like Wilson, but he had standards.

A few minutes later, House was lying against porcelain, in relative comfort. Motel tubs had nowhere near the depth of his old one back home, so he couldn’t exactly luxuriate. But he could give his thigh some relief.

For a while, House just listened to the silence, punctuated only by the drip from the tub faucet. There was a long road ahead. Getting Wilson into the right treatment, figuring out who could get him to and from chemo rounds if House couldn’t.

But they’d work it out, he thought, almost absently. And he was immediately struck by how unlike him that type of positive thinking was.

Then he heard something. A muffled voice, maybe from the TV. But it didn’t sound canned. It sounded real. House strained his ears to try to discern the voice. Maybe it was from the room next door.

“Wilson?” he called. No response.

For a reason he couldn’t explain, House decided it was time to end his bath. He moved as quickly as he could to get up and dressed. When he came out he saw that Wilson was in bed, now down to his t-shirt and boxers, sprawled on top of the comforter.

“Were you watching TV?” House asked.

“Hmmm?” Wilson answered groggily, raising his head from the pillow just a bit.

“Nothing.” House headed to the other bed. “And I think you better skip washing up until the morning. You’re liable to drown in there.”

“Hafta brush my teeth,” Wilson said, pushing up and staggering like a newborn colt to retrieve his oral hygiene array.

House snickered, but with that bit of fondness he allowed when Wilson was drunk or otherwise unlikely to notice the affection.

After Wilson returned and was safely in bed, House flicked off the light. They were both too tired for TV.

 

******

 

House wasn’t sure what woke him, but he thought it was Wilson’s voice.

He blinked a few times, trying to see in the near-dark. In this motel room, House could see the bathroom from his bed, but the door was partway closed.

House could hear Wilson’s voice coming from behind the door.

“Fuck,” House whispered. But it was OK, he quickly told himself. He couldn’t expect Wilson’s parasomnias to just magically disappear.

Then House noticed that Wilson was talking a bit louder than usual, so he listened more closely. He thought he heard Wilson saying, “No, that’s not,” but the rest was muffled.

House felt his heart rate starting to pick up a bit, but he lay still. Maybe if he could make out what Wilson was saying…

And then he heard it. A second voice. A voice answering Wilson’s.

House sat bolt upright. It couldn’t be. There couldn’t be someone else in there.

 _Move,_ House’s brain screamed at him. _Get the fuck up._

But he couldn’t move.

He heard Wilson’s voice again, this time questioning, asking why.

And then the other voice. And it _was_ another voice. But House didn’t know it, and he couldn’t make out its words.

House opened his mouth, but his throat was desert-dry and nothing came out. He swallowed and finally managed to call out, “Wilson!”

No answer, and House was on his feet, moving toward the bathroom door. But when he was just a couple steps away, the door slammed shut.

“Wilson?” House tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. He pounded on the door. “Wilson, what’s going on? Open the fucking door!”

House pressed his ear to the door. He could hear a low, almost whispering voice. And he wasn’t sure it was Wilson’s. But it had to be. House had to have been mistaken before.

“Wilson,” House said to the door. “I’m gonna break this thing in if you don’t open it.”

House heard the tub faucet turn on. _What the fuck?_

“Wilson, it’s not bath time,” he said, trying the knob again.

And then House felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. _They found him in the bathtub,_ Wilson had said. _He’d cut his wrists._

Before his mind could wrap around that thought, House found himself pounding on the door again. But he quickly realized that was no fucking use. Then he was ramming his shoulder into it. He knew that was a bad idea, but he couldn’t kick the door because of his _fucking leg._

House stepped back then took a couple hops on his good leg to throw his shoulder into the door. But he felt like he just hit a brick wall, pain shooting into his arm and back. Motel bathroom doors were pieces of shit, he thought vaguely. They shouldn’t feel like that.

 _Wait, wait, wait,_ House’s rational mind kicked in. _Pick the goddamn lock._

He hop-skipped to the closet. Yes—cheap fucking wire hangers.

House grabbed one and straightened the wire hook as he almost staggered back to the door and crouched against the fiery pain in his thigh.

His hands were trembling so hard he missed the hole on the doorknob on the first try. So he used his left hand to steady his right, this time managing to thread the wire into the knob.

“Wilson,” he called, as he fished around, waiting for the pop of the push-button lock. “Don’t do anything. I’m coming.”

House knew he was babbling, but he had to say the words. The bathtub water had stopped running.

Then House heard the lock release, and he grasped the knob right from his perch on the floor. The knob turned but the door didn’t budge.

“Fuck!” House pulled himself to his feet, and tried shoving the door as he turned the knob. Nothing.

“Arghhhh!” House yelled in frustration and rammed the door again. What the fuck was blocking it?

“Wilson!” he shouted. “Don’t do anything!” Dimly, he realized he wasn’t sure his plea was aimed at Wilson.

House stopped, breathing heavily. It was no use going on like that. That’s when he spotted his cane sitting right there by the bed. He grabbed it and drove the blunt end into the area of the door right below the knob—the weakest part, he’d learned from TV cop shows.

Still nothing. “ _Fuck_ you!” House shouted, still not certain to whom.

He tossed his cane aside and took a couple steps back, then awkwardly hopped and flung the weight of his body into the door one more time. And suddenly, amazingly, he found himself sprawled on the bathroom floor.

 _Cold,_ was his first thought at the feeling of the tile under his hands and bare legs. House shuddered slightly as the chill from the floor seemed to run straight through his limbs to his spine.

Then he looked up and his breath caught in his throat.

Wilson was sitting in the half-full tub, still in his t-shirt and shorts. Only now he had a shiny, exquisitely sharp-looking pocketknife in his left hand, poised just above his right forearm.

Wilson had his knees bent up and was using them as a rest for his forearm, just staring at the delicate skin and network of blood vessels underneath.

House didn’t move. He could see the knife quaking in Wilson’s unsteady left hand. But everything else about Wilson was still; he didn’t seem to even be blinking.

“Wi-Wilson,” House whispered, in a voice he could barely recognize as his own. “Don’t.”

Wilson didn’t respond at all. House thought he should lunge at him, but he didn’t think he could be quick enough. And Wilson might just stab him with the thing. He couldn’t be in his right mind, after all.

House slowly sat up, trying not to spook his friend. He noticed Wilson’s eyes shoot him a glance. But otherwise, he seemed thoroughly consumed by the task in front of him.

“Wilson,” House said, more firmly. “You don’t want to die. You told me so yourself.”

Wilson shook his head ever so slightly. “I don’t,” he whispered.

“Then you should put the knife down. You could accidentally hurt someone.”

Wilson’s lips seemed to tremble a little. “Don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

“Good,” House said, watching the knife closely. “You should put that on the floor, and then we’ll talk about what’s wrong.”

“I want to,” Wilson said. “But I can’t.”

As horrified as House was, he couldn’t deny that there was some part of him that was also fascinated.

“Where’d you get the knife? You didn’t have it before.”

Wilson gave another tiny head shake, keeping his eyes on his forearm. “Don’t know. It was here when I came in to talk to Danny.”

House moved just his eyes to give the space a quick scan—even though he knew, logically, there was nowhere for anyone to be hiding in there. And that Danny wasn’t an “anyone,” either. Wilson must’ve bought the knife when he’d gone on his solo trip that morning.

Still. “Where’s Danny now?” House asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe you scared him.” Wilson sighed. “But he always comes back.”

House nodded, even though Wilson was still looking at his own arm. “Wilson? Did Danny tell you to kill yourself?”

Wilson shook his head. “He said he needs me, and I’m abandoning him again. I said that’s not true. I said I just wanna live a while longer.”

The knife hand started shaking more, and House couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He felt his t-shirt sticking to his back where a cold sweat had broken out. He felt the shallowness of his own breathing. But he willed himself to stay calm.

“And that’s your right,” he said. “To want to live.”

Wilson choked out a small, humorless laugh. “Danny said, ‘Why? Why do you want to live? Life is pain.’”

House startled at hearing his own words, from just weeks ago, thrown back at him.

“That’s not true,” House heard himself saying now. “I mean, that’s not all there is.”

“He said he needs me,” Wilson repeated. “I-I don’t think he’s gonna leave me alone until I do what he wants.”

House felt his heart start to pound again. He kept his eyes on the knife, and said, “Your brother sounds a lot like me.”

“Yeah,” Wilson said simply.

House started to lean forward, subtly shifting his weight toward Wilson. “I’m not gonna leave you alone, either.”

Wilson’s knife hand trembled a bit more and he pressed his lips together.

“You just said I scared him away,” House said. “I can keep scaring him away.”

“House, you can’t—”

“Yes, I can!” House almost yelled, then flinched when he saw the knife blade touch Wilson’s skin.

“Wilson,” he said, starting to inch his way toward the tub, still on the floor. “You don’t want to die, and you know it. When you agreed to this trip, you knew I’d find out how bad this was. You wanted me to find out. You wanted me to help you.”

Wilson closed his eyes, then choked out, “I know. But now, I don’t think—”

“Then don’t think,” House cut in. “Just listen to me. Put the knife on the floor and get out of the tub. Or stay in the tub if you want. Just put that thing on the floor.”

“I want to,” Wilson insisted. “I can’t move, House. I think Danny—”

“Danny’s not here,” House said, trying not to sound harsh, just truthful. “Danny isn’t doing this. You are. You can stop if you want to.”

Wilson closed his eyes again, as a sob escaped him.

“Wilson,” House said, now almost to the edge of the tub. “I’m only going to say this one more time, and then never again…I need you.”

Wilson sniffed, then began to nod slowly. After a few moments he moved the knife away from his arm. “OK,” he whispered.

Wilson’s hand was shaking almost violently as he reached out to drop the knife on the floor by the tub. House immediately grabbed it and retracted the blade.

He looked back to Wilson, who was hugging his knees and shaking all over now. It was weirdly cold in there, House thought again.

“Are you ready to get out?” he asked Wilson. “You’ll be a whole lot more comfortable.”

Wilson nodded. House pulled himself to his feet and tossed the knife in the sink so he could help Wilson. They made their way out together, House grabbing a towel along the way.

 

******

 

Once Wilson had dried off and they’d both dressed, Wilson sat down on the edge of his bed and looked up at House expectantly.

House hesitated. But there was no way around it. “Will you let me call 911? Suicide attempt. You’ll get a psych evaluation.”

Wilson looked down at his hands. “Then what?”

House shook his head. “Maybe a new antidepressant ‘script? Maybe…We’ll go straight to M.D. Anderson. You know half the faculty there. You’ll get into their psych program for cancer patients.”

Wilson didn’t say anything.

“But we have to do something now,” House urged. “We can’t stay here tonight. Can I call 911?”

Wilson looked at him. “Do you really think I’m crazy?”

House sighed heavily. “There’s no ‘crazy’ in the DSM four, Wilson.”

Wilson just kept looking at him, before finally taking a deep breath. “Did you not hear him at all, House?”

“No,” House said, almost too quickly. But even if that wasn’t quite the truth, it wasn’t really a lie, either, House reasoned.

He couldn’t be sure what he’d heard. He was exhausted and stressed and he didn’t fully trust himself.

And what else did he have to go on? A stuck door, and a knife that Wilson claimed had been waiting for him. Maybe it had been. It was a fucking motel bathroom.

House sighed again. “Wilson. I think you’ve had long-standing depression that’s been mostly untreated. Maybe PTSD, too. I think you’re having severe sleep disturbances. And I think somewhere in there, we’re gonna find out what’s causing the hallucinations.”

Wilson blinked. “I don’t want to die, House.”

“I know,” House said automatically.

“No, really,” Wilson insisted, his eyes filling up. “I can’t explain what happened in there. It’s like there’s two different forces pulling me, and I…get confused sometimes.”

“OK,” House said simply. “So the force that I’m on? You listen to that one.”

Wilson offered a sad sort of smile.

“Will you go to the hospital?” House tried again. “Just for tonight. I’m tired, Wilson. I’ve got to sleep, but I’m fucking scared to.” House didn’t mind admitting it. He was too exhausted to do otherwise.

Wilson nodded. “Yeah, that’s—I’m sorry.”

House waved him off. “Don’t start.” He sighed. “I wanna call, though.”

Wilson nodded again. They both knew he’d be taken care of faster if they arrived at the ER in an ambulance.

House called 911, keeping his eyes on Wilson the whole time—as if he might make a run for it, or some invisible “force” might get to him again.

After House hung up, there was an awkward silence.

“Relax,” he told Wilson, just to be saying something. “You’ll soon be in the soothing environs of a Jackson, Mississippi, ER.”

Wilson said nothing, but slowly got up and moved to repack the few things he’d pulled from his backpack.

“I’ll get the stuff from the bathroom,” House said, more sharply than he’d intended.

If Wilson noticed, he didn’t show it.

House limped into the bathroom and hastily gathered the shampoo, Wilson’s girly lotion and the toothpaste and toothbrushes. And then he was stopped still at the sink.

The knife was gone. House looked around, on the floor, in the tub, behind the toilet. He’d thought it had landed in the sink, but…

He quickly stepped back into the room, but Wilson was just sitting on the edge of the bed again, backpack at his feet. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up at House.

“Nothing. Just thought I heard something outside. Guess ambulances around here take their time.”

“It is the South,” Wilson agreed. And House almost smiled at the familiar wry tone peeking out.

“I, uh,” House pointed at the bathroom. “I better use this. Seems you’ve gone and scared the shit out of me.”

Wilson shook his head, but House saw a fleeting half-smile.

He stepped back into the bathroom, closed the door and stood in front of the mirror.

He looked like an old man. Heavy bags under his eyes, deep lines cutting his face, maybe even more gray hair. And utter exhaustion laid bare. It was very possible that he had simply started hearing things that night, too.

Still, the knife was gone, House had to admit.

He held his own gaze in the mirror and spoke in a low voice. “I know you think you need him. But he’s not ready yet.”

House looked down, ashamed he was resorting to this. But he was also willing to give anything a shot right now. He looked back up.

“He tried his best for you. He always did. He fucked up sometimes, but he never forgot you.”

“House?” he heard Wilson call.

“Yep,” House replied.

He looked at his reflection once more. “He deserves to have his life for as long as he can. Just…let him have his life.”

House could hear the sirens outside now. He waited a moment, as if he’d get some kind of response. Nothing—just as he’d thought.

When House stepped back into the room, Wilson looked up sharply. House could see the fear in his eyes, even though Wilson had set his jaw and was trying to look stoic. House limped over to him where he sat, and searched for something to say.

“We’re gonna be OK,” he said finally. As he spoke, House realized he was echoing what Danny had said to Wilson in that premonitory dream.

Wilson looked a bit startled but he nodded, just as the EMTs came to the door. House moved to let them in. And as he limped to the door, he wondered if he or Wilson believed his words.

 

******

 

Since Wilson had no injuries, the EMTs settled on asking him some questions. One of them, a heavy-set man, ushered House off to the side and spoke in what he probably thought were hushed tones.

In these situations, there was often denial, the EMT said in a heavy Southern drawl, as he used a handkerchief to dab some sweat from his brow.

House just nodded.

“There’s no clear injury. They can claim they’re fine,” the EMT went on. “They’ll say their, uh,” he paused, looking at Wilson and then back to House, “loved one is overreacting.”

But House knew Wilson would be putting up no argument. He looked to be very politely answering the other EMT’s undoubtedly inane questions.

After a bit more talk they were ready to pack Wilson into the ambulance. House decided he would follow on his bike.

House’s body felt leaden as he limped into the parking lot. And as he strapped his pack onto his bike, he finally felt the full force of his throbbing thigh. He no longer had adrenaline, or Wilson’s face in front of him, to distract him.

House reached for the keys in his jeans pocket. But his hand didn’t touch a set of keys. It found something solid, heavier.

House pulled his hand out and for a moment just stared numbly at what he held. The knife. Folded up, just like he’d last seen it when he tossed it in the sink.

But…He must’ve been wrong about that. He must have put the knife in his pocket instead.

_Except I wasn’t wearing these when I took the knife from Wilson._

House scrambled to mentally retrace his steps. He’d gotten dressed only after bringing Wilson out of the bathroom. And he was sure he’d had no knife in hand at that point. He’d definitely left it in the sink.

House rubbed his eyes. He was so fucking tired…Was it possible?

“You ready?” one of the EMTs called to him.

“Just a minute!” House replied, still looking at the object in his hand.

Maybe he was remembering it all wrong. _Best friend almost offs himself due to ghost brother. It’s stressful._ He must have put the knife in his pocket.

The only other possibility was that someone else had. And House didn’t feel ready to linger on that one.

So he searched again for his keys, finding them in one of his leather-jacket pockets.

Before getting on the bike, House slipped the knife into an inner pocket of his jacket. He decided he didn’t care how the thing ended up in his hands. What mattered was that it _was_ in his hands—not Wilson’s or anyone else’s.

Logically, House knew the world was full of things that could threaten, hurt or kill. But the weight of that particular thing in his pocket, right there by his heart, felt something like a shield. He didn’t need to know the “how.”

For now.

House signaled to the EMTs as he started the bike. He was ready to follow Wilson to where they were going.

 

 

_\--End_


End file.
